THE PERFECT 
TRJJ3VTE 

MAHY RA^nOND SHIPA&NyWDR-EWS 




Class _E4r£!2L ' 
Book JJflu 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



BOOKS BY MARY R. S. ANDREWS 

Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

The Militants. Illustrated $1.50 

Bol) and the Guides. Illustrated . . . $1.50 

The Perfect Tribute. With Frontispiece $0.50 

Vive l'Empereur. Illustrated .... $1.00 




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£SS 
T v ac Copies Received 

NOV 3 1908 

Copy right Entry 

GLASS CU AAC« No, 

COPY A. 



t45 7 
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Copyright, 1906, 1908 
2fy Charles Scribner's Sons 



Published November, 1908 



The PERFECT 
TRIBUTE 

ON the morning of Novem- 
ber 18, 1863, a special 
train drew out from Washington 
carrying a distinguished com- 
pany. The presence with them 
of the Marine Band from the 
Navy Yard spoke a public oc- 
casion to come, and among the 
travellers there were those who 
might be gathered only for an 
occasion of importance. There 
were judges of the Supreme 
Court of the United States ; there 



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were heads of departments; the 
general-in-chief of the army and 
his staff; members of the cabi- 
net. In their midst, as they 
stood about the car before set- 
tling for the journey, towered a 
man sad, preoccupied, unassum- 
ing; a man awkward and ill- 
dressed; a man, as he leaned 
slouchingly against the wall, of 
no grace of look or manner, in 
whose haggard face seemed to be 
the suffering of the sins of the 
world. Abraham Lincoln, Pres- 
ident of the United States, jour- 
neyed with his party to assist at 
the consecration, the next day, 



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of the national cemetery at Get- 
tysburg. The quiet November 
landscape slipped past the rat- 
tling train, and the President's 
deep-set eyes stared out at it 
gravely, a bit listlessly. From 
time to time he talked with those 
who were about him; from time 
to time there were flashes of that 
quaint wit which is linked, as his 
greatness, with his name, but his 
mind was to-day dispirited, un- 
hopeful. The weight on his 
shoulders seemed pressing more 
heavily than he had courage to 
press back against it, the re- 
sponsibility of one almost a dic- 



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tator in a wide, war-torn country 


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came near to crushing, at times, 
the mere human soul and body. 


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There was, moreover, a speech 




to be made to-morrow to thou- 




sands who would expect their 




President to say something to 


them worth the listening of a 


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people who were making his- 


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tory; something brilliant, elo- 


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quent, strong. The melancholy 


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gaze glittered with a grim smile. 


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He — Abraham Lincoln — the lad 


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bred in a cabin, tutored in rough 


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schools here and there, fighting 


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for, snatching at crumbs of learn- 




ing that fell from rich tables, 

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struggling to a hard knowledge 
which well knew its own limita- 
tions — it was he of whom this 
was expected. He glanced across 
the car. Edward Everett sat 
there, the orator of the following 
day, the finished gentleman, the 
careful student, the heir of tradi- 
tions of learning and breeding, 
of scholarly instincts and re- 
sources. The self-made Presi- 
dent gazed at him wistfully. 
From him the people might ex- 
pect and would get a balanced 
and polished oration. For that 
end he had been born, and in- 
heritance and opportunity and 






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inclination had worked together 
for that end's perfection. While 
Lincoln had wrested from a 
scanty schooling a command of 
English clear and forcible al- 
ways, but, he feared, rough- 
hewn, lacking, he feared, in fin- 
ish and in breadth — of what use 
was it for such a one to try to 
fashion a speech fit to take a 
place by the side of Everett's 
silver sentences ? He sighed. 
Yet the people had a right to the 
best he could give, and he would 
give them his best; at least he 
could see to it that the words 
were real and were short; at 

6 




least he would not, so, exhaust 
their patience. And the work 
might as well be done now in 
the leisure of the journey. He 
put a hand, big, powerful, labor- 
knotted, into first one sagging 
pocket and then another, in 
search of a pencil, and drew out 
one broken across the end. He 
glanced about inquiringly — there 
was nothing to write upon. 
Across the car the Secretary of 
State had just opened a package 
of books and their wrapping of 
brown paper lay on the floor, 
torn carelessly in a zig-zag. The 
President stretched a long arm. 






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"Mr. Seward, may I have this 
to do a little writing ?" he asked, 
and the Secretary protested, in- 
sisting on finding better material. 

But Lincoln, with few words, 
had his way, and soon the untidy 
stump of a pencil was at work 
and the great head, the deep- 
lined face, bent over Seward's 
bit of brown paper, the whole 
man absorbed in his task. 

Earnestly, with that "capacity 
for taking infinite pains" which 
has been defined as genius, he 
labored as the hours flew, build- 
ing together close-fitted word on 
word, sentence on sentence. As 

8 









the sculptor must dream the 
statue prisoned in the marble, as 
the artist must dream the picture 
to come from the brilliant un- 
meaning of his palette, as the 
musician dreams a song, so he 
who writes must have a vision 
of his finished work before he 
touches, to begin it, a medium 
more elastic, more vivid, more 
powerful than any other — words 
— prismatic bits of humanity, old 
as the Pharaohs, new as the 
Arabs of the street, broken, 
sparkling, alive, from the age- 
long life of the race. Abraham 
Lincoln, with the clear thought 



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in his mind of what he would 

say, found the sentences that 

came to him colorless, wooden. 

A wonder flashed over him once 

or twice of Everett's skill with 

these symbols which, it seemed 

to him, were to the Bostonian a 

key-board facile to make music, 

to Lincoln tools to do his labor. 

He put the idea aside, for it 

hindered him. As he found the 

sword fitted to his hand he must 

fight with it; it might be that he, 

as well as Everett, could say that 

which should go straight from 

him to his people, to the nation 

who struggled at his back tow- 
10 



ards a goal. At least each syl- 
lable he said should be chiselled 

sincerity. 



from the rock of his 



So he cut here and there an ad- 
jective, here and there a phrase, 
baring the heart of his thought, 
leaving no ribbon or flower of 
rhetoric to flutter in the eyes of 
those with whom he would be 
utterly honest. And when he 
had done he read the speech and 
dropped it from his hand to the 
floor and stared again from the 
window. It was the best he 
could do, and it was a failure. 
So, with the pang of the work- 
man who believes his work done 
11 





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wrong, he lifted and folded the 
torn bit of paper and put it in 
his pocket, and put aside the 
thought of it, as of a bad thing 
which he might not better, and 
turned and talked cheerfully with 
his friends. 

At eleven o'clock on the morn- 
ing of the day following, on 
November 19, 1863, a vast, 
silent multitude billowed, like 
waves of the sea, over what had 
been not long before the battle- 
field of Gettysburg. There were 
wounded soldiers there who had 
beaten their way four, months 

before through a singing fire 
12 



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across these quiet fields, who 
had seen the men die who were 
buried here; there were troops, 
grave and responsible, who must 
soon go again into battle; there 
were the rank and file of an 
every-day American gathering in 
surging thousands; and above 
them all, on the open-air plat- 
form, there were the leaders of 
the land, the pilots who to-day 
lifted a hand from the wheel of 
the ship of state to salute the 
memory of those gone down in 
the storm. Most of the men in 
that group of honor are now 
passed over to the majority, but 

13 



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their names are not dead in 


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American history — great ghosts 


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who walk still in the annals of 




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their country, their flesh-and- 


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blood faces were turned atten- 


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tively that bright, still November 




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afternoon towards the orator of 


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the day, whose voice held the 
audience. 




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For two hours Everett spoke 
and the throng listened untired, 


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fascinated by the dignity of his 






high-bred look and manner al- 




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most as much, perhaps, as by 




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the speech which has taken a 






place in literature. As he had 


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been expected to speak he spoke, 

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of the great battle, of the causes 
of the war, of the results to come 
after. It was an oration which 
missed no shade of expression, 
no reach of grasp. Yet there 
were those in the multitude, sym- 
pathetic to a unit as it was with 
the Northern cause, who grew 
restless when this man who had 
been crowned with so thick 
a laurel wreath by Americans 
spoke of Americans as rebels, of 
a cause for which honest Amer- 
icans were giving their lives as 
a crime. The days were war 
days, and men's passions were 
inflamed, yet there were men 

15 



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who listened to Edward Everett 
who believed that his great 
speech w r ould have been greater 
unenforced with bitterness. 

As the clear, cultivated voice 
fell into silence, the mass of 
people burst into a long storm 
of applause, for they knew that 
they had heard an oration which 
was an event. They clapped 
and cheered him again and again 
and again, as good citizens ac- 
claim a man worthy of honor 
whom they have delighted to 
honor. At last, as the ex-Gov- 
ernor of Massachusetts, the ex- 
Ambassador to England, the ex- 

16 



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Secretary of State, the ex-Senator 
of the United States — handsome, 
distinguished, graceful, sure of 
voice and of movement— took 
his seat, a tall, gaunt figure de- 
tached itself from the group on 
the platform and slouched slowly 
across the open space and stood 
facing the audience. A stir and 
a whisper brushed over the field 
of humanity, as if a breeze had 
rippled a monstrous bed of pop- 
pies. This was the President. 
A quivering silence settled down 
and every eye was wide to watch 
this strange, disappointing ap- 
pearance, every ear alert to catch 

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the first sound of his voice. Sud- 


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denly the voice came, in a queer, 


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squeaking falsetto. The effect 




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on the audience was irrepres- 
sible, ghastly. After Everett's 




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deep tones, after the strain of 


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expectancy, this extraordinary, 


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gaunt apparition, this high, thin 


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sound from the huge body, were 


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too much for the American 
crowd's sense of humor, always 
stronger than its sense of rever- 


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ence. A suppressed yet unmis- 




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takable titter caught the throng, 




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ran through it, and was gone. 




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Yet no one who knew the Presi- 






dent's face could doubt that he 

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had heard it and had under- 
stood. Calmly enough, after a 
pause almost too slight to be 
recognized, he went on, and in 
a dozen words his tones had 
gathered volume, he had come 
to his power and dignity. There 
was no smile now on any face 
of those who listened. People 
stopped breathing rather, as if 
they feared to miss an inflection. 
A loose-hung figure, six feet four 
inches high, he towered above 
them, conscious of and quietly 
ignoring the bad first impres- 
sion, unconscious of a charm of 
personality which reversed that 

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impression within a sentence. 


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That these were his people was 


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his only thought. He had some- 




thing to say to them; what did 




it matter about him or his voice ? 


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"Fourscore and seven years 


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ago," spoke the President, "our 


fathers brought forth on this 


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continent a new nation, con- 
ceived in liberty and dedicated 
to the proposition that all men 


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are created equal. Now we are 


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engaged in a great civil war, 


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testing whether that nation, or 


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any nation, so conceived and so 




dedicated, can long endure. We 


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are met on a great battle-field 




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of that war. We have come to 
dedicate a portion of it as a final 
resting-place for those who here 
gave their lives that that nation 
might live. It is altogether fit- 
ting and proper that we should 
do this. 

"But in a larger sense we 
cannot dedicate, we cannot con- 
secrate, we cannot hallow, this 
ground. The brave men, living 
and dead, who struggled here, 
have consecrated it far above our 
poor power to add or to detract. 
The world will little note nor 
long remember what we say 
here, but it can never forget 

21 



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what they did here. It is for 
us, the living, rather, to be dedi- 
cated here to the unfinished 
work which they who fought 
here have thus far so nobly ad- 
vanced. It is rather for us to 
be here dedicated to the great 
task remaining before us — that 
from these honored dead we 
take increased devotion to that 
cause for which they here gave 
the last full measure of devotion 
— that we here highly resolve 
that these dead shall not have 
died in vain, that this nation, 
under God, shall have a new 

birth of freedom, and that gov- 
22 



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eminent of the people, by the 
people, for the people shall not 
perish from the earth." 

There was no sound from the 
silent, vast assembly. The Pres- 
ident's large figure stood before 
them, at first inspired, glorified 
with the thrill and swing of his 
words, lapsing slowly in the 
stillness into lax, ungraceful 
lines. He stared at them a mo- 
ment with sad eyes full of gentle- 
ness, of resignation, and in the 
deep quiet they stared at him. 
Not a hand was lifted in ap- 
plause. Slowly the big, awk- 
ward man slouched back across 

23 




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the platform and sank into his 
seat, and yet there was no sound 
of approval, of recognition from 
the audience; only a long sigh 
ran like a ripple on an ocean 
through rank after rank. In 
Lincoln's heart a throb of pain 
answered it. His speech had 
been, as he feared it would be, 
a failure. As he gazed steadily 
at these his countrymen who 
would not give him even a little 
perfunctory applause for his best 
effort, he knew that the disap- 
pointment of it cut into his soul. 
And then he was aware that 
there was music, the choir was 

24 






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singing a dirge; his part was 


done, and his part had failed. 


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When the ceremonies were 


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over Everett at once found the 


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President. " Mr. President," he 




began, "your speech — " but 


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Lincoln had interrupted, flash- 


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ing a kindly smile down at him, 


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laying a hand on his shoulder. 

"We'll manage not to talk 
about my speech, Mr. Everett," 


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he said. "This isn't the first 




time I've felt that my dignity 


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ought not to permit me to be a 


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public speaker." 


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He went on in a few cordial 




sentences to pay tribute to the 

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orator of the occasion. Everett 
listened thoughtfully and when 
the chief had done, "Mr. Pres- 
ident," he said simply, "I should 
be glad if I could flatter myself 
that I came as near the central 
idea of the occasion in two hours 
as you did in two minutes." 

But Lincoln shook his head 
and laughed and turned to speak 
to a newcomer with no change 
of opinion — he was apt to trust 
his own judgments. 

The special train which left 
Gettysburg immediately after 
the solemnities on the battle-field 
cemetery brought the President's 

26 



party into Washington during 
the night. There was no rest 
for the man at the wheel of the 
nation next day, but rather 
added work until, at about four 
in the afternoon, he felt sorely 
the need of air and went out from 
the White House alone, for a 
walk. His mind still ran on the 
events of the day before — the 
impressive, quiet multitude, the 
serene sky of November arched, 
in the hushed interregnum of the 
year, between the joy of summer 
and the war of winter, over those 
who had gone from earthly war 
to heavenly joy. The picture 

27 



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was deeply engraved in his mem- 
ory; it haunted him. And with 
it came a soreness, a discomfort 
of mind which had haunted him 
as well in the hours between — 
the chagrin of the failure of his 
speech. During the day he had 
gently but decisively put aside 
all reference to it from those 
about him; he had glanced at 
the head-lines in the newspapers 
with a sarcastic smile ; the Chief 
Executive must be flattered, of 
course; newspaper notices meant 
nothing. He knew well that 
he had made many successful 
speeches ; no man of his shrewd- 

28 









ness could be ignorant that again 
and again he had carried an 
audience by storm; yet he had 
no high idea of his own speech- 
making, and yesterday's affair 
had shaken his confidence more. 
He remembered sadly that, even 
for the President, no hand, no 
voice had been lifted in applause. 

"It must have been pretty 
poor stuff," he said half aloud; 
"yet I thought it was a fair little 
composition. I meant to do well 
by them." 

His long strides had carried 
him into the outskirts of the city, 
and suddenly, at a corner, from 

29 



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behind a hedge, a young boy of 


fifteen years or so came rushing 


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toward him and tripped and 
stumbled against him, and Lin- 


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coln kept him from falling with 


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a quick, vigorous arm. The lad 


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righted himself and tossed back 


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his thick, light hair and stared 


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haughtily, and the President, re- 
garding him, saw that his blue 


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eyes were blind with tears. 


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"Do you want all of the pub- 


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lic highway ? Can't a gentleman 




from the South even walk in the 


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streets without — without — " and 


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the broken sentence ended in 




a sob. & 


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The anger and the insolence 
of the lad were nothing to the 
man who towered above him — 
to that broad mind this was but 
a child in trouble. "My boy, 
the fellow that's interfering with 
your walking is down inside of 
you," he said gently, and with 
that the astonished youngster 
opened his wet eyes wide and 
laughed — a choking, childish 
laugh that pulled at the older 
man's heart-strings. "That's bet- 
ter, sonny," he said, and patted 
the slim shoulder. " Now tell me 
what's wrong with the world. 
Maybe I might help straighten it . " 

31 



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"Wrong, wrong!" the child 
raved; "everything's wrong," 
and launched into a mad tirade 
against the government from the 
President down. 

Lincoln listened patiently, and 
when the lad paused for breath, 
"Go ahead," he said good- 
naturedly. " Every little helps." 

With that the youngster was 
silent and drew himself up with 
stiff dignity, offended yet fasci- 
nated; unable to tear himself 
away from this strange giant who 
was so insultingly kind under his 
abuse, who yet inspired him with 
such a sense of trust and of hope. 

32 



1 




"I want a lawyer," he said 
impulsively, looking up anx- 
iously into the deep-lined face 
inches above him. "I don't 
know where to find a lawyer in 
this horrible city, and I must 
have one — I can't wait — it may 
be too late — I want a lawyer 
now/ 9 and once more he was in 
a fever of excitement. 

"What do you want with 
a lawyer?" Again the calm, 
friendly tone quieted him. 

"I want him to draw a will. 
My brother is — " he caught his 
breath with a gasp in a desperate 
effort for self-control. "They 

33 



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say he's — dying." He finished 
the sentence with a quiver in his 
voice, and the brave front and 
the trembling, childish tone went 
to the man's heart. "I don't 
believe it — he can't be dying," 
the boy talked on, gathering 
courage. "But anyway, he 
wants to make a will, and — and 
I reckon — it may be that he — he 
must." 

"I see," the other answered 
gravely, and the young, torn soul 
felt an unreasoning confidence 
that he had found a friend. 
"Where is your brother?" 

"He's in the prison hospital 

34 



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there — in that big building," 
he pointed down the street. 
"He's captain in our army — in 
the Confederate army. He was 
wounded at Gettysburg." 

"Oh!" The deep-set eyes 
gazed down at the fresh face, 
its muscles straining under grief 
and responsibility, with the gen- 
tlest, most fatherly pity. "I 
think I can manage your job, 
my boy," he said. "I used to 
practise law in a small way my- 
self, and I'll be glad to draw the 
will for you." 

The young fellow had whirled 
him around before he had fin- 

35 



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ishedthe sentence 



Come, 



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Don 



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talk- 



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_why didn't you 



tell me 



be- 



fore?' 



nd then he glanc 



the ill-fitting 



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ed up. 
the 



^ttC carriage of the 
th e awkwara tokn0 w 

man;h ewastooyo-g ^ 

that what he »|^ was a 
was greatness. wice 

tone of parage m* 

n^gtaat- spohe. 
cratic young voU know— 

« W ecanpayy oU ;^ Hefixedllis 
we're not paupers- atch 

eyes on Lincoln sto* ^ 
the impressxon^as 



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"My brother is Carter Hamp- 
ton Blair, of Georgia. I'm War- 
rington Blair. The Hampton 
Court Blairs, you know." 

"Oh!" said the President. 

The lad went on: 

"It would have been all right 
if Nellie hadn't left Washington 
to-day — my sister, Miss Eleanor 
Hampton Blair. Carter was bet- 
ter this morning, and so she went 
with the Senator. She's sec- 
retary to Senator Warrington, 
you know. He's on the Yankee 
side" — the tone was full of con- 
tempt — "but yet he's our cousin, 
and when he offered Nellie the 

37 






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Im- 




position she would take it in 
spite of Carter and me. We 
were so poor" — the lad's pride 
was off its guard for the moment, 
melted in the soothing trust with 
which this stranger thrilled his 
soul. It was a relief to him to 
talk, and the large hand which 
rested on his shoulder as they 
walked seemed an assurance that 
his words were accorded respect 
and understanding. "Of course, 
if Nellie had been here she 
would have known how to get 
a lawyer, but Carter had a bad 
turn half an hour ago, and the 
doctor said he might get better 

38 



I 






m§B 



or he might die any minute, and 
Carter remembered about the 
money, and got so excited that 
they said it was hurting him, so 
I said I'd get a lawyer, and I 
rushed out, and the first thing I 
ran against you. I'm afraid I 
wasn't very polite." The smile 
on the gaunt face above him was 
all the answer he needed. "I'm 
sorry. I apologize. It certainly 
was good of you to come right 
back with me." The child's 
manner was full of the assured 
graciousness of a high-born gen- 
tleman; there was a lovable 
quality in his very patronage, 

39 






h 



and the suffering and the sweet- 
ness and the pride combined 
held Lincoln by his sense of 
humor as well as by his soft 
heart. "You sha'n't lose any- 
thing by it," the youngster went 
on. "We may be poor, but we 
have more than plenty to pay you, 
I'm sure. Nellie has some jew- 
els, you see — oh, I think several 
things yet. Is it very expensive to 
draw a will ?" he asked wistfully. 
"No, sonny; it's one of the 
cheapest things a man can do," 
was the hurried answer, and the 
child's tone showed a lighter 
heart. 

40 



i 



W^Z&z 



§ 



^*&&§r 



Mi 






"I'm glad of that, for, of 
course, Carter wants to leave — 
to leave as much as he can. 
You see, that's what the will is 
about — Carter is engaged to mar- 
ry Miss Sally Maxfield, and they 
would have been married now if 
he hadn't been wounded and 
taken prisoner. So, of course, 
like any gentleman that's en- 
gaged, he wants to give her 
everything that he has. Hamp- 
ton Court has to come to me after 
Carter, but there's some money 
— quite a lot — only we can't get 
it now. And that ought to go to 
Carter's wife, which is what she 

41 



K5-T 



sm&m&- 



a^^aSS" 



is — just about — and if he doesn't 
make a will it won't. It will 
come to Nellie and me if — if any- 
thing should happen to Carter." 

"So you're worrying for fear 
you'll inherit some money?" 
Lincoln asked meditatively. 

"Of course," the boy threw 
back impatiently. "Of course, 
it would be a shame if it came to 
Nellie and me, for we couldn't 
ever make her take it. We don't 
need it — I can look after Nellie 
and myself," he said proudly, 
with a quick, tossing motion of 
his fair head that was like the 
motion of a spirited, thorough- 

42 



3§pppg 



mi 



i 



3^*^£ 






bred horse. They had arrived 
at the prison. "I can get you 
through all right. They all know 
me here," he spoke over his 
shoulder reassuringly to the Pres- 
ident with a friendly glance. 
Dashing down the corridors in 
front, he did not see the guards 
salute the tall figure which fol- 
lowed him; too preoccupied to 
wonder at the ease of their 
entrance, he flew along through 
the big building, and behind him 
in large strides came his friend. 
A young man — almost a boy, 
too — of twenty-three or twenty- 
four, his handsome face a white 

43 



V 



f^-33 



shadow, lay propped against the 
pillows, watching the door eager- 
ly as they entered. 

" Good boy, Warry," he greet- 
ed the little fellow; "you've got 
me a lawyer," and the pale fea- 
tures lighted with a smile of 
such radiance as seemed incon- 
gruous in this gruesome place. 
He held out his hand to the 
man who swung toward him, 
looming mountainous behind his 
brother's slight figure. " Thank 
you for coming," he said cordial- 
ly, and in his tone was the same 
air of a grand seigneur as in the 
lad's. Suddenly a spasm of pain 

44 



$ 



?»: 



'A 



caught him, his head fell into the 
pillows, his muscles twisted, his 
arm about the neck of the kneel- 
ing boy tightened convulsively. 
Yet while the agony still held 
him he was smiling again with 
gay courage. "It nearly blew 
me away," he whispered, his 
voice shaking, but his eyes bright 
with amusement. " We'd better 
get to work before one of those 
little breezes carries me too far. 
There's pen and ink on the table, 
Mr. — my brother did not tell me 
your name." 

"Your brother and I met in- 
formally," the other answered, 

45 




z^xmz- 



s^^k^sr 



setting the materials in order for 
writing. "He charged into me 
like a young steer," and the boy, 
out of his deep trouble, laughed 
delightedly. ' ' My name is Lin- 
coln." 

The young officer regarded 
him. " That's a good name from 
your standpoint — you are, I take 
it, a Northerner?" 

The deep eyes smiled whimsi- 
cally. "I'm on that side of the 
fence. You may call me a 
Yankee if you'd like." 

" There's something about you, 
Mr. Lincoln," the young Geor- 
gian answered gravely, with a 

46 



i 

i 



^m >m^ 



■zmtsmi 






kindly and unconscious conde- 
scension, "which makes me wish 
to call you, if I may, a friend." 

He had that happy instinct 
which shapes a sentence to fall 
on its smoothest surface, and the 
President, in whom the same 
instinct was strong, felt a quick 
comradeship with this enemy, 
who, about to die, saluted him. 
He put out his great fist swiftly. 

"Shake hands," he said. 
"Friends it is." 

6 Till death us do part,' " said 
the officer slowly, and smiled, 
and then threw back his head 
with a gesture like the boy's. 

47 



If 



f 



We must do the will," he said 
peremptorily. 

"Yes, now we'll fix this will 
business, Captain Blair," the 
big man answered cheerfully. 
"When your mind's relieved 
about your plunder you can rest 
easier and get well faster." 

The sweet, brilliant smile of 
the Southerner shone out, his 
arm drew the boy's shoulder 
closer, and the President, with a 
pang, knew that his friend knew 
that he must die. 

With direct, condensed ques- 
tion and clear answer the simple 
will was shortly drawn and the 



i 




% 



impromptu lawyer rose to take 
his leave. But the wounded man 
put out his hand. 

"Don't go yet," he pleaded, 
with the imperious, winning ac- 
cent which was characteristic of 
both brothers. The sudden, ra- 
diant smile broke again over the 
face, young, drawn with suffer- 
ing, prophetic of close death. 
I like you," he brought out 
frankly. "I've never liked a 
stranger as much in such short 
order before." 

His head, fair as the boy's, lay 
back on the pillows, locks of hair 
damp against the whiteness, the 





blue eyes shone like jewels from 
the colorless face, a weak arm 
stretched protectingly about the 
young brother who pressed 
against him. There was so 
much courage, so much help- 
lessness, so much pathos in the 
picture that the President's 
great heart throbbed with a 
desire to comfort them. 

"I want to talk to you about 
that man Lincoln, your name- 
sake," the prisoner's deep, un- 
certain voice went on, trying 
pathetically to make conversa- 
tion which might interest, might 
hold his guest. The man who 

50 






1 


~~~\&^0<r 




N^N^f 


VwJ 


stood hesitating controlled a 




rv 


startled movement. " I'm South- 


^S^v 




ern to the core of me, and I be- 


£frf\Q 




lieve with my soul in the cause 


ffil 




I've fought for, the cause I'm — " 






he stopped, and his hand car- 


W^/^uJ 




essed the boy's shoulder. " But 


W0$L 




that President of yours is a re- 


W ?£#'$j 


If 


markable man. He's regarded 
as a red devil by most of us 
down home, you know," and he 


1 IS2P 






laughed, "but I've admired him 






all along. He's inspired by prin- 


t$Mj! 




ciple, not by animosity, in this 


Ills ' "^tM*. 




fight; he's real and he's powerful 


ypnm) 




and" — he lifted his head impet- 




1 


uously and his eyes flashed — 

51 






P^^^^S^^B^^^^^S^ 


jmJ^I/ 






|||$^^ 




. — '•"" — 


I^^eI/ 






m 




"and, by Jove, have you read 
his speech of yesterday in the 
papers?" 

Lincoln gave him an odd look. 
"No," he said, "I haven't." 

"Sit down," Blair command- 
ed. "Don't grudge a few min- 
utes to a man in hard luck. I 
want to tell you about that 
speech. You're not so busy but 
that you ought to know." 

"Well, yes," said Lincoln, 
"perhaps I ought." He took 
out his watch and made a quick 
mental calculation. "It's only 
a question of going without my 
dinner, and the boy is dying, 5 



L 



he thought. "If I can give him 
a little pleasure the dinner is a 
small matter." He spoke again. 
"It's the soldiers who are the 
busy men, not the lawyers, now- 
adays," he said. "I'll be de- 
lighted to spend a half hour with 
you, Captain Blair, if I won't 
tire you." 

"That's good of you," the 
young officer said, and a king on 
his throne could not have been 
gracious in a more lordly yet 
unconscious way. "By the way, 
this great man isn't any relation 
of yours, is he, Mr. Lincoln?" 

"He's a kind of connection — 

53 



\W£;j. 



K 







vi^y \£ P 


— — — — ^^ = — -| s 


0Qm 
tmsip 


r j jk%&^k^ n 

through my grandfather," Lin- 


^%£% 


coln acknowledged. "But I 


$7^& 


know just the sort of fellow he 


W fef^v 


is — you can say what you want." 




"What I want to say first is 




this : that he yesterday made one 


Wm$\ 


of the great speeches of history." 


[■p^» 


"What?" demanded Lincoln, 




staring. 
;| "I know what I'm talking 
about." The young fellow 




brought his thin fist down on the 


IiC^^wa' 


bedclothes. "My father was a 




speaker — all my uncles and my 


5§§5g]p 


grandfather were speakers. I've 




been brought up on oratory. 




I've studied and read the best 

54 

! ^^m ' y 






W#^^vk^^^v/ ll^^M^t\MCJ' ^Mji^^^^M)])} 




v<^^^?^^^S^^^^&^^' d ^S^<5^^^^^^^^^^ 







WVrA^^^r Vi^^- :::; = , ^'^-l^i?j!^'r^ : ^ 


M '^sssss^tar— — — ' 


nfw 


k ( >;^ 1 




VwJ 


models since I was a lad in 


$&f w 


knee-breeches. And I know a 


g~^M^ 


great speech when I see it. And 


ft^« ¥ 


when Nellie — my sister — brought 


in the paper this morning and 




read that to me I told her at 


wi^M 


once that not six times since his- 




tory began has a speech been 


made which was its equal. That 
was before she told me what the 


11® 


iHs 


Senator said." 
m 

"What did the Senator say?" 






asked the quiet man who lis- 


^Mp^ 


tened. 


/7AA%C 


"It was Senator Warrington, 




to whom my sister is — is acting 




as secretary." The explanation 


vS^M* /? 


55 


ii31 


%> - x52^^3v 








^^»^^^S^ 


^^ 



1 ' 






^^^^^^;S^- S2a *^ r "^a3^7r^^^%s^ ! j3«sa^-4S^'Vi: -r^*^AS^ 


Y^Sj) XS IT 


"^^^^ 5| 


1181 


<^^> J p 

was distasteful, but he went on, 


v*%fe^y) 


carried past the jog by the inter- 




est of his story. "He was at 


IP 


Gettysburg yesterday, with the 




President's party. He told my 


J^M^ 


sister that the speech so went 


d^Sw 


home to the hearts of all those 


PH^B 


thousands of people that when 




it was ended it was as if the 
whole audience held its breath — 


7j f S* -ivjOS ' 


there was not a hand lifted to 




applaud. One might as well 




applaud the Lord's Prayer — it 




would have been sacrilege. And 


wMm 


they all felt it — down to the low- 




est. There was a long minute of 


<Xms\aS 


reverent silence, no sound from 

56 

I 

I — — immp— — —J « 











all that great throng — it seems 
to me, an enemy, that it was the 
most perfect tribute that has 
ever been paid by any people to 
any orator." 

The boy, lifting his hand from 
his brother's shoulder to mark 
the effect of his brother's words, 
saw with surprise that in the 
strange lawyer's eyes were tears. 
But the wounded man did not 
notice. 

"It will live, that speech. 
Fifty years from now American 
school-boys will be learning it as 
part of their education. It is 
not merely my opinion," he went 

57 



: ■/< : 



itlKjjS- 



■>,.. 



*■ 



on. " Warrington says the whole 
country is ringing with it. And 
you haven't read it ? And your 
name's Lincoln ? Warry, boy, 
where's the paper Nellie left ? 
I'll read the speech to Mr. Lin- 
coln myself." 

The boy had sprung to his 
feet and across the room, and 
had lifted a folded newspaper 
from the table. "Let me read 
it, Carter — it might tire you." 

The giant figure which had 
crouched, elbows on knees, in 
the shadows by the narrow hos- 
pital cot, heaved itself slowly up- 
ward till it loomed at its full 

58 



■>. ■/' 

U 










height in air. Lincoln turned his 
face toward the boy standing 
under the flickering gas-jet and 
reading with soft, sliding inflec- 
tions the words which had for 
twenty-four hours been gall and 
wormwood to his memory. And 
as the sentences slipped from 
the lad's mouth, behold, a mir- 
acle happened, for the man who 
had written them knew that they 
were great. He knew then, as 
many a lesser one has known, 
that out of a little loving-kind- 
ness had come great joy ; that he 
had wrested with gentleness a 
blessing from his enemy. 

59 






7/m 



>y%^ 



iwffl 



'v'v ; 




^^^m 



■zz&sm 



"' Fourscore and seven years 
ago,'" the fresh voice began, and 
the face of the dying man stood 
out white in the white pillows, 
sharp with eagerness, and the 
face of the President shone as 
he listened as if to new words. 
The field of yesterday, the speech, 
the deep silence which followed 
it, all were illuminated, as his 
mind went back, with new mean- 
ing. With the realization that 
the stillness had meant not in- 
difference, but perhaps, as this 
generous enemy had said, "the 
most perfect tribute ever paid 
by any people to any orator," 

60 



!1P 



M 









there came to him a rush of 
glad strength to bear the burdens 
of the nation. The boy's tones 
ended clearly, deliberately: 

"* We here highly resolve that 
these dead shall not have died in 
vain, that this nation, under 
God, shall have a new birth of 
freedom, and that government of 
the people, by the people, for the 
people shall not perish from the 
earth." 5 

There was deep stillness in the 
hospital ward as there had been 
stillness on the field of Gettys- 
burg. The soldier's voice broke 
it. "It's a wonderful speech," 

61 



he said. " There's nothing finer. 
Other men have spoken stirring 
words, for the North and for the 
South, but never before, I think, 
with the love of both breathing 
through them. It is only the 
greatest who can be a parti- 
san without bitterness, and only 
such to-day may call himself 
not Northern or Southern, but 
American. To feel that your 
enemy can fight you to death 
without malice, with charity — it 
lifts country, it lifts humanity 
to something worth dying for. 
They are beautiful, broad words 
and the sting of war would be 

62 







g ,__ **^>g%y 


n^vJPv 


drawn if the soul of Lincoln 




could be breathed into the ar- 


fer^$m^ 


mies. Do you agree with me ?" 


P^Scw 


he demanded abruptly, and Lin- 


coln answered slowly, from a 




happy heart. 




" I believe it is a good speech," 


uS^M 


he said. 


W^T^'m 


The impetuous Southerner 
went on: "Of course, it's all 


to 


wrong from my point of view," 




and the gentleness of his look 




made the words charming. "The 


ffsffo '■ t'-J 


thought which underlies it is 


f/l J-^f^JI 


warped, inverted, as I look at it, 


*K^57 


yet that doesn't alter my admi- 




ration of the man and of his 

63 
H 1 m$*Z%Z : ' 










,1 . — 1 




words. I'd like to put my hand 
in his before I die," he said, and 
the sudden, brilliant, sweet smile 
lit the transparency of his face 
like a lamp ; " and I'd like to tell 
him that I know that what we're 
all fighting for, the best of us, 
is the right of our country as it 
is given us to see it." He was 
laboring a bit with the words 
now as if he were tired, but 
he hushed the boy imperiously. 
"When a man gets so close to 
death's door that he feels the 
wind through it from a larger 
atmosphere, then the small 
things are blown away. The 

64 



bitterness of the fight has faded 
for me. I only feel the love of 
country, the satisfaction of giv- 
ing my life for it. The speech — 
that speech — has made it look 
higher and simpler — your side 
as well as ours. I would like to 
put my hand in Abraham Lin- 
coln's " 

The clear, deep voice, with its 
hesitations, its catch of weakness, 
stopped short. Convulsively the 
hand shot out and caught at the 
great fingers that hung near him, 
pulling the President, with the 
strength of agony, to his knees 
by the cot. The prisoner was 

65 






u,v «£ : 



^ 



'.'%< 






22^&m&L 



i^^s^ 



writhing in an attack of mortal 
pain, while he held, unknowing 
that he held it, the hand of his 
new friend in a torturing grip. 
The door of death had opened 
wide and a stormy wind was 
carrying the bright, conquered 
spirit into that larger atmosphere 
of which he had spoken. Sud- 
denly the struggle ceased, the 
unconscious head rested in the 
boy's arms, and the hand of the 
Southern soldier lay quiet, where 
he had wished to place it, in the 
hand of Abraham Lincoln. 



IS 
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g f W 



C °PV. DEL. TO GAT. u, 

NOV S 15, U0 



NOV 7' J888 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




012 025 224 



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